The Forest House

The clock struck ten in the city of Duly, and Tyron found himself walking out of the police station with his mother. The air was thick with tension, though his mother's smile tried to lighten the mood. "Mom, I already told them—it wasn't me. It was that guy in the light blue shirt, black pants, white-and-black sneakers, and that yellow backpack," Tyron insisted, his voice tinged with frustration.

His mother patted his shoulder gently. "Tyron, the police and the doctor said you probably imagined it all because of the shock. They think it was the security guards who stopped those men. And that story about you attacking them with a tennis racket? Well, it's all over the news. But the important thing is you're safe. You only have a minor injury, and the pain will go away in a few days."

Tyron clenched his fists, biting back the urge to argue further. He knew what he'd seen. He knew who he'd seen. But no one believed him.

The car ride home was silent, save for the hum of the engine. Tyron stared out the window, his mind replaying the image of the stranger—the man who had saved his life with nothing but a kitchen knife. A mix of gratitude and anger simmered inside him. Anger because the credit had gone to the wrong people. Anger because no one understood.

When they arrived home, Tyron's younger brother tried to greet him, but Tyron brushed past him without a word. He stormed straight to his room, slamming the door behind him, and collapsed onto his bed. He just wanted to forget the entire day.

But forgetting wasn't an option.

The week that followed turned Tyron into an unwilling celebrity. At school, he was bombarded with questions. "Did you really take down those guys?" "What was it like?" "Are you some kind of hero?" Tyron ignored them all. His mind was too busy clinging to the memory of the stranger, the man who had moved like a shadow and fought like a storm. Tyron wanted to find him, to thank him properly, to understand who he was.

By Saturday, Tyron had made up his mind. His chest no longer ached, and he was done waiting. He packed a backpack, threw on a cap, sunglasses, and some sporty clothes, and set out at dawn. If the stranger lived in the city, Tyron was determined to find him.

His search, however, was anything but smooth.

First, an old lady whacked him with her umbrella, convinced he was trying to steal her prized blue blanket. Then, he accidentally trespassed into a family's garden, mistaking their scarecrow—dressed in a light blue shirt and yellow pants—for the stranger. Finally, he climbed to the top of the city's tallest building, only to find a statue of a meditating man placed there by some eccentric artist.

By late afternoon, Tyron was exhausted and defeated. He hadn't found a single clue. Just as he was about to give up, a hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked him into a dark alley. Tyron stumbled, his heart racing as a man pressed a gun to his chest.

"Why are you looking for him?" the man growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Tyron's eyes widened. "I—I don't want to die! I'm not looking for anyone!"

The man leaned closer, his grip tightening. "Don't lie to me. I've been watching you all day, asking questions, snooping around. Who are you looking for?"

For a moment, Tyron's fear gave way to a flicker of hope. "Wait… you know him? You know the guy in the light blue shirt?"

The man hesitated, then lowered the gun slightly. He pulled back his hood, revealing a sharp face and piercing eyes. "You're lucky I'm not the kind of guy who shoots kids. Name's Matías. Detective Matías. And you, kid, are the reason I've been stuck doing psych evaluations all week."

Tyron blinked, confused. "Psych evaluations? Why?"

Matías sighed, holstering his gun. "Because, kid, you supposedly took down five armed men with a tennis racket. Either you're a psychopath, or you're hiding something. Now, come on. We're going for a ride."

Before Tyron could protest, Matías led him to a car parked nearby. They drove in silence, leaving the city behind and heading into the dense forest. Tyron's nerves buzzed with a mix of fear and curiosity. Who was this detective, and where was he taking him?

After what felt like hours, they arrived at a secluded cabin deep in the woods. The sun had set, and the forest was cloaked in shadows. Matías parked the car and gestured for Tyron to follow.

Tyron hesitated, but something about the detective's demeanor made him feel oddly safe. He grabbed his backpack and stepped out of the car, his eyes scanning the cabin. It was old, with a faint glow of light seeping through the windows.

Matías walked up to the door and knocked. A moment later, it creaked open, and Tyron's breath caught in his throat.

Standing in the doorway was the stranger—the man who had saved his life.

The stranger's eyes narrowed as he looked at Matías. "What the hell is this, Matías? Why'd you bring a kid here?"

Tyron's heart raced. He was finally face-to-face with his hero. But as he stood there, under the stranger's piercing gaze, he realized this was only the beginning of something much bigger—and much more dangerous.